


Life in Pieces

by fmart203



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Alternate Universe, Angst, First Kiss, Fluff, Gen, Hospitals, M/M, No Sex, No Smut, Parenthood, Post-Series, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-26
Updated: 2018-01-26
Packaged: 2019-03-09 14:40:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13483620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fmart203/pseuds/fmart203
Summary: Rosie ends up bringing Sherlock and John together in the most unexpected way when she is in hospital.(Unfinished but it's still kinda nice and fluffy. They were supposed to get married at somepoint. Just use your imagination for that bit.)





	Life in Pieces

**Author's Note:**

> Sup bitches. I'm not going to finish this work because I don't like the way it was turning out. I may rewrite it someday or smth but idk. I felt like posting though cuz I spent some time on this. If it gets enough hits ill write a wedding scene so put your hands up in the air if u want a big gay wedding between the two of them.

He did not expect any text messages. He never did. It was the one thing he could never understand, and quite frankly, it was absurd. Human element. He couldn’t look at a phone and read it’s body language, look at how well it was dressed, or what kind of body marks it had that give him a clue as to what type of person it was, what it would do next. It was simply a cold metal object that sat in his pocket most of the time.  
So when the phone buzzed in his blazer pocket, he jumped a bit. Only a tiny bit. Not even noticeable unless you looked closely enough. His eyes slid out of the frame of the viewfinder of the microscope, his hands moved the small focus knob accidently. He sighed. It would take forever to focus it again.  
Pulling the phone out of his pocket, he saw the message was from John. “Rosie is in hospital” was all it read. Didn’t even mention which hospital. That was okay, Sherlock knew. It wouldn’t be St. Bart’s, and it wouldn’t be the hospital that Charles Augustus Magnussen had donated to. Too many dead bodies and bad memories in each of those. That left five other possibilities. John wouldn’t choose the one he worked at either- another one out.  
“Four,” he said to himself. Inside his head, he drew out a map of each one in it’s proximity to John’s house. There was one that was 12 kilometers away- but it wasn’t that good. John wouldn’t choose that one. Three.  
There. St. Maximilian Kolbe Memorial Hospital. It was large, well known around London, and had just been renovated. That’s where John was.  
“I’ll be out,” He said, to no one in particular while throwing his coat on. No one was even home, he knew, but sometimes the loneliness would cease if he talked to himself aloud. 

While in the taxi, he calculated how long Rosie had been in hospital. Couldn’t have been for more than a day, or else John would have texted him earlier. But it wasn’t like she was just admitted- John would be too worried to remember to text Sherlock.  
It must have been a few hours. And Rosie was not with him at the moment of texting. She was away, for what, Sherlock was unsure of.  
“Sir.”  
“Yes?” Sherlock said, moving his head from it’s rest on the window to meet the cabbie’s eye.  
“Yer ‘ere. I bin tellin’ ya for the past two minutes! Are you okay?”  
“Yes, I have been told I do that sometimes.” Was the tall man’s only reply, providing no explanation for what ‘that’ was, nor answering the cab driver’s question.  
Pulling a 20 euro note from his coat pocket, he handed it to the cabbie. One look at him told Sherlock everything he needed to know: dirty, unwashed clothing. Hadn’t shaved in several days- homeless. Smelled slightly of marijuana- drug user, but not a heavy one. Bruises on his cheek, as well as nursing his left arm slightly- got in a fight. With whom? Bruises are small, but not faded: fresh, within the past 24 hours. Must have been a woman’s punch then, most likely his wife. Small baby food stains on the unkempt shirt- he has a child.  
“Keep the change. Spend it on your kid, not the marijuana you buy.”  
Without looking up to see the man’s shocked expression, he pulled a piece of paper from the inside of his trench, as well as a pen. On it he scrawled his name, and address, as well as a phone number.  
“Call me if you ever need anything.” Unsure of how to tell the man that he himself was a drug addict for many years, he gave him a small smile and left, stepping out onto the street before the hospital.  
It was raining. Sherlock wasn’t sure when it had started, but he presumed that it had been raining when he left the flat for hospital. Perhaps he had been too lost in his thoughts to notice.  
Whatever the reason, it wasn’t going to do him much good to stand out in the rain. He headed into the building, but when he got inside, he was surprised to find his fingers were shaking, his heart racing.  
“Once I am finished with analytical aspect of a situation, the emotional aspect of it kicks in,” He murmured to himself, as visions of Rosie’s smiling toddler face were replaced by her in pain. He worried if she was okay.  
“S’cuse me?”  
“Oh? No, it’s nothing,” He said, his eyes jerked to the ones of the slightly annoyed receptionist. Her face was long and pointy, her hair pulled back into one of the tightest ponytails that Sherlock had ever seen. Not to mention that the harsh fluorescent lights of the room did not do her much justice, they illuminated her sunken eyes and wrinkles.  
“I’m here to see John Hamish Watson, and Rosamund Mary Watson.” He said their full names, mostly to prove he was a good friend of theirs. It would statistically improve his chance of being let to visit Rosie by 23.7%.  
“Uhh, that would be room 74 on floor 3… It’s the B wing… But it says right now that Rosamund is in surgery, so you’re likely to find John in the waiting room… It’s in-”  
“I know where it is, thank you.” He said, waving her away “Where do I sign in?”  
“Right here,” she shoved a piece of paper in front of Sherlock.  
He quickly signed his name in, age (why was that important?), intent of visit, and relation to patient. That was it, really, and then he was off into the lift.

Rushing out into the busy hallway of the third floor, it wasn’t hard to find the waiting room. To his left he saw a small, white room filled with uncomfortable polyester benches, tables with magazines, some horrid art hanging on the walls, and plastic plants strewn into the mix.  
And there was John. Hunched over, sitting on a bench, his head in his hands.  
Sherlock immediately ran over, the anticipation beating in his chest.  
“John!”  
The man looked up from his place on the couch, and for a moment, Sherlock saw himself as John saw him: A tall man, wearing black in a place where everyone wore white, where the walls were whitewashed, a tall man, wearing black, standing out from everything else. A friendly, concerned face, in a building where John had only seen strangers all day. His hair, wet- plastered to his forehead, actually straight for once.  
John went over to Sherlock.  
“It’s just appendicitis, Sherlock, oh thank God, thank God, thank God,” He whispered, his chest rising and falling rapidly. “I thought…”  
“I know what you thought. John- she’s not going to die.”  
John nodded, his head facing the ground.  
“What would I have done, Sherlock? She’s all I have left of Mary.”  
“I don’t know. And you don’t have to worry about it. Everything is going to be just fine.”  
They walked back to the bench, John’s shaking hand gently clutching Sherlock’s  
bicep,Sherlock not pretending to notice, although John knew Sherlock knew.  
“I’m going to think for a while, John. Let me know if you need anything.” Sherlock told the shorter man, once they were both seated on the couch. There was no one else in the room.  
“Okay.”  
He leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes. As of right now, there was a particularly enthralling case he was working on- suicidal man tries to kill himself, ends up in hospital. He starts going to therapy, begins to make some progress. But two weeks ago, he made a call to his ex-wife telling her he ‘couldn't do it anymore’, and was found dead in his flat the next day. The interesting part of it all was: in the floorboards of the flat, over £20,000,000 in diamonds was found.  
Sherlock knew of course, that his ‘suicide’ was actually a badly disguised murder. Even the Scotland Yard knew that. The question was, of who the murderer was- and who the diamonds belonged to.  
There 45 of them in total- 45 14 carat diamonds, worth about £450,000 each. They were of the finest quality, and Sherlock perceived that they had yet to be sold. Because of their quality, and the quantity, they must have been taken straight from a diamond store room. Most likely in Africa, from a big diamond store that would be too afraid that someone had broken into their safes. It might inspire others.  
The diamonds must have belonged to the company, then. It would be easy to figure out which company had lost the diamonds-  
“Sherlock.”  
Sherlock became vaguely aware of a hand on his arm, tapping it gently. The hospital waiting room came into focus as he opened up his eyes, leaving his mind palace and into a physical reality.  
“Yes?” He said, turning his head towards John’s.  
“Rosie is out of surgery. I'm going to go and wake her up now, do you want to come?”  
He is not sure what John wants. Would John rather him stay back so he can have this moment with his daughter? Or does John need him there for the emotional support? His eyes search John’s face for emotions that would help him make a decision. He finds nothing. Do it for yourself, his heart tells him.  
“I'll come with you. Just don't expect me to get all mushy, as I know you will do enough crying for the both of us.”  
John smiles over at Sherlock, and already small tears have formed in his eyes.  
They go over to greet Rosie in a small room, separate from the normal rooms. The sign outside it says ‘Recovery Room’. It is a small room, with two beds, and a curtain between each.  
John walks into the room, and kneels down by the bedside so his eyes are at Rosie’s length. She is still asleep, an oxygen tube in her nose. He takes her small hands his hands. Sherlock follows him, but keeps his distance, leaning against the wall. He has never felt part of the family, as much as he would wish, and he feels as though he is intruding. Nevertheless, he had a rare moment of intuition, and wanted to be there for the young girl.  
“Rosie,” John says softly.  
She wakes, very slowly, her eyes beginning to focus on what's going on around her. Her cheeks are a rosy sort of pink, her small hands reaching over, pulling her father closer to her.  
Sherlock pretends to be lost in thought, as he doesn't want to seem as though he is being awkward by just standing there.  
“There’s Sherlock!” Rosie exclaims at last.  
“Yes, there’s Sherlock.”  
“Can Sher come here?”  
“Sherlock,” John calls over to him. But Sherlock still avoids confrontation.  
“Sherlock!”  
A sigh.  
“C’mon Sherlock, I know you can hear me.”  
Neither that could persuade Sherlock to come over. Except what Rosie said to him next snapped him right out of it.  
“C’mon Sher, I know you can hear me,” Rosie says, mimicking her father in her sweet voice.  
“Yes?” He says, his heart warmed by the little girl.  
“Come here, Sher”  
“Oh, I don't think I could really…”  
But then he sees the tears starting to form in Rosie’s eyes, and in order to avoid a full on melt-down, he agrees.  
“If I must,” he says, while taking his place next to John.  
Seeing Rosie’s smile as he does so lightens up his world. He never thought that he would ever be able of feeling love to this extent, but everyday he is surprised by the capacity of his heart. But it is a two way street, and he is also learning the capacity of the loneliness of his heart in the longing it feels, living in an empty flat, without the man that he loves, and the girl he loves.

They are leaving the hospital now, visiting hours are over. Sherlock nearly had to tear John away from Rosie.  
“Well, I guess this is it.” John says, as they both wait for cabs, to depart their own ways.  
“It doesn't have to be. Come home with me.” It is one of the most spontaneous things he has ever said.  
“Mm?”  
“Do you really want to be alone tonight?”  
“I suppose not.”  
“Alright!” Sherlock says, enthusiastically.  
“Taxi!”  
They enter into the flat, and Sherlock walks over to the kitchen.  
“Care for a cup?” He says, while putting the water to boil and grabbing two mugs.  
“Certainly.” John is walking around the living room, taking it all in, looking at the changes that have taken place since he moved out all those years ago.  
“You haven't lit the fire in a while.”  
“Yes, I’ve uh, been forgetting.’  
John smiles.  
“Do you mind if I light it, then?”  
“No, go ahead. The wood is still to the left of the fireplace.”  
Sherlock fixates on making the tea, and by the time he is finished, there is a roaring fire.  
He gives John his mug, and the two of them take their places in their respective seats, just as old times.  
They sit in silence for a while, each unsure of how to start the conversation.  
“I thought I was going to lose her,” John says at last. His voice is tired, and heavy with emotion. His fingers are absentmindedly tap the tea mug.  
“I mean, Harry in November, and my mum in December. If I lost Rosie, I would have had no one, Sherlock.”  
“You have me,” Sherlock whispers quietly. “I'll always be here. I'm not going anywhere, John.”  
The other man looks up, a bit surprised, but then smiles softly, though there are tears in his eyes.  
“I know I'll have you, Sherlock. But Harry… well, we grew up together. She is- was my sister. And my mum! She raised me. As for my father, he died seven years ago. Him and my mum were divorced.”  
“I know.”  
“Of course you knew.”  
“The point is, Sherlock, I'm not good at expressing my emotions. But I was afraid today. I saw a future that I hated. Because whenever my life seems to be on the up and mend, just when I adjust to something, it goes to shit. I want to live a nice life, Sherlock. I'm tired of this.”  
He starts to cry again, this time not shielding his face from Sherlock but having it turned towards the man. Showing him his insides, his scars, his battles. Because he now knows that is not something he needs to hide anymore.  
Sherlock doesn't know what to do. He sees the pain of the man he loves, and it pains him too. His insides are all twisted up, his head is fuzzy, and for the first time in awhile, he can't think straight. There is something he desperately wants to do, but he doesn't know if it is right.  
Rising slowly, he walks over to John.  
“Forgive me, John” his low voice murmurs in the sitting man's left ear, his right hand on John’s shoulder.  
Gently, tenderly even, he places a kiss on John’s cheek. It is a small one, short, but full of meaning.  
He hears John suck in his breath.  
“Sherlock? What was that?”  
“A kiss.”  
“I know that. Why?”  
“I thought you needed it.”  
John looks up at Sherlock, at his mop of curls, his concerned tired blue eyes, and he felt surge of love in his chest. He stands up from the chair, putting his hands on top of Sherlock’s shoulders.  
This time, the kiss is on the lips. And it lasts longer, too. Full of passion.  
They pull away, and John looks at Sherlock’s utterly confused face.  
“Should I… uhm, was that okay?”  
John can't help but smile.  
“Yes Sherlock, you're a good kisser.”  
“You're not as confused as I. Why?”  
“Honestly, this day has been out of my control. Had it been a normal one, I would have reacted a bit differently. But I saw how much you cared about Rosie. And how you've been there for me. You're lonely... I'm lonely.”  
“Yes, well, the flat is looking a bit unkekpt.” Sherlock says, gazing at all the equipment strewn about, the undusted furniture, and sniffs the air, crinkling his nose. Always one to change the subject.  
“Milk is spoiled. Or perhaps it is the chicken heart. Give me a second, John. I have a matter to attend to.”  
When Sherlock comes back, he is holding a clear airtight bag with small green things in it.  
“It was the Ostrich eyes. Forgot I had them.”  
He goes downstairs to dispose of them (put them in Mrs. Hudson's kitchen, so it's her problem now). John throws some more logs on the fire, and sits back in


End file.
